


Burn

by OCWotchny



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, M/M, jack fucked up, morgan was your love ur life and then you do him like this, seriously though jack why, spoilers tho so i mean dont read unless youve read other stuff, writing this is actually hurting me, you deserve everything he does smh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 03:13:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8311849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OCWotchny/pseuds/OCWotchny
Summary: Morgan is content living life after the downfall of Overwatch, trying to re-find his place in the world. He comes to terms with his husband's death, and gets by with the mundane life he made for himself after a marriage filled with excitement and love and adventure.Then, he's called in to serve as the new Overwatch's publicist, and figures out the hard way that old soldiers never die. [Set after the events of Non-Stop. I want to show how Morgan deals with the fact that the love of his life lied to him about his death for a decade. It's angsty as hell. Also, references things that happened in Non-Stop, so you will be lost as hell if you haven't read that. Enjoy!]





	1. Chapter 1

It had been ten years since he heard talk of it in the streets.

Ten years since he had seen children smile in excitement over the name, ten years since he’d seen newspaper articles published telling tales of its feats, ten years since he had heard the term ‘Hero’ used in conversation with such adoration. Ten years since he had heard of ‘Overwatch’.

Ten years, and it still hurt like the day he’d said goodbye.

Morgan Crux had left the narrative after the eulogy he gave at his late husband’s funeral. The speech had made headlines worldwide, and he’d received letters of condolence for weeks afterwards. Five years after the downfall, he started receiving letters and emails that requested to use his words in classes, to teach on romanticism and creative writing and carve a lesson of writing from the heart. It was these requests that inspired him to leave his job and apply at a university, and teach the gift of gab to youth worldwide. It was a different kind of heroism he was attempting to inspire-- he wanted to instill strong morals and beliefs in those that he taught. He wanted them to know how to speak their mind effectively, how to persuade others to their side, how to use language as a weapon far mightier than any Omnic or biotechnical weapon. He wanted his students to leave his class with the ability to stand up and fight for their opinion, to make themselves heard in a world where so many were put down.

It was an enjoyable career, to be sure. He’d heard nightmare stories about high school teachers, but college professing was very lackadaisical and free. His students were always a joy(those that stayed for the year, at least), and soon enough the pain began to fade away from the tragedies that had taken place in his last four years of marriage.

The only steady reminders of Overwatch were his ‘children’, and the updates they would send in. Both were still active soldiers, fighting the good fight, but Fareeha would call twice a week, and Tracer zips by whenever she has the chance. He always made some sort of gift for their birthdays, and whenever they had a chance to come and visit they’d get the present as a sweet surprise. The only days they for sure would come visit were New Year’s, Morgan’s anniversary, and the anniversary of both Ana and Jack’s passing. New Year’s was always some kind of party, with Lena getting absolutely smashed while Fareeha and Morgan enjoyed the party in their own quiet ways, though the latter celebrations were remembered in quiet. Morgan made dinner, and at the table they would all reminisce on the good-- and the bad-- times they had with their missing family. 

Still, life was easy; Morgan aged well, still looking no older than forty at the ripe age of fifty-two. The only signs of age were the lines under his eyes, and his greyed hair. His face still had a youthful tautness to it, however, and his skin was still smooth and tan as it was twenty years prior. Lena always joked that he was on the same stuff Angela was on, and he would just laugh and shake his head. If the light caught him right, however, the maturity in his features became apparent… The tired, wise eyes that still shined a bright green when he spoke, the knowing, quiet smile he tried to keep on his lips, the delicate contour of his nose and his cheekbones that bathed him in boldening shadows when the sun was ahead and he sat by the window, reading or grading papers. They spoke of his age, of the things he had seen and experienced, of the place he had carved himself in the world. 

Life went on with all of these changes, and Morgan found a way to be content. It stayed that way for years; teach classes, go out to eat on a friday, read in his spare time, have a glass of wine when responding to questions from would-be writers in the world. He became accustomed to the repetition, the odd mundane pattern he didn’t get to have in the excitement of his marriage, and felt quaint. While admittedly somewhat boring, it was still something, and there was a quiet pleasantness in the life he made for himself without Jack. His past, however, comes back to haunt him eventually, and shakes the foundation he had laid out so carefully with an email.

It’s in his spam folder, and he almost misses it-- the name on the subject caught his eye, however, and he felt compelled to open it. ‘Overwatch’ had been abuzz lately, and the message was hardly coincidence for it to show up at the time.

The message gave a location, a time, a date, and a plane ticket. The directions simply said he was to go to the mediterranean, take a taxi to the mountains, and go to an abandoned base. There would be someone he knew waiting for him there, and the rest would be explained. His ‘ _ particular skills’ _ were needed to assist the world in becoming a better place, and the anonymous sender implored him to accept the request.

He doesn’t know why he does. 

Maybe it was the aching heart in his chest that still whispered Jack’s name with every beat; maybe it was the cold spot in his too-large bed that screamed at him every night; maybe it was the strange, hollow sensation that had settled in his life without his friends-- without his  _ family’s _ presence. Whatever it was, however, compelled him with such ferocity that it scares him when he clicks ‘accept’. For the first time in ten years, he has no idea what tomorrow holds. For the first time in ten years, he feels a sense of wonder in his life, a curiosity and a drive to strive for more.

For the first time in ten years, his dreams are no longer nightmares filled with longing and dread as a coffin is lowered into the ground, but instead a hope that only grows when he feels a familiar hand clasp onto his shoulder, and a familiar husky voice muttering into his ear encouragement that makes him feel like he can do anything.

~*~

It took a little bit of bribery, but he managed to get time off. Never having a sick day pays off, apparently, and he is given three weeks worth of time to go and do… Whatever it is he needs to do.

The day of his departure, he is filled with anxiety at what awaited him at his destination. The flight is mercifully short, though he’s antsy the entire way. His foot jumps, he scratches at the back of his hand-- sitting still is not an option, not with how  _ ready _ he is to get back into the movement. 

It takes all of him to not feel a  _ tiny _ bit disappointed, when, after a four-hour flight, and a two-hour taxi drive, he walks up to the abandoned gate, suitcase wheeling behind him, and sees Tracer jumping up and down in front of what looked like a doorway.

“ _ Oi! Mummy! I’m over here! D’ya see me?!” _

She’s his surrogate child either way, however, and he’s delighted to see her in person. She moves forward, almost like a jump, and there’s a blue streak across the sky that trails behind her form when she appears right in front of Morgan and barrels straight into him. The two of them nearly crash with her embrace, but Morgan manages to straighten back up with a laugh and set Lena back down. She’s practically vibrating with excitement, looking similar to a puppy when its owner gets home from a vacation. 

“It’s good to see you, dear!” Morgan coos, reaching up and brushing styled bangs out of Lena’s hair. She sticks out her tongue with a childish frown, trying to pull back from the movement. “And you look the same as you did last month! How can you joke on me, huh, Lena?” 

The joke makes Lena giggle, and she grabs hold of Morgan’s wrist to hold him still. “I know, I know-- You bring it up every time! It’s like you expect me to grow taller.”

Morgan pretends to think on this, shrugging in mocking admittance, “Maybe an inch or two, yes.” This earns him a swat on the chest from Tracer, and he snorts out another laugh.

The two make their way inside the base which, surprisingly, looks to be in good shape. Morgan marvels at the halls, most of it familiar, while Tracer blabbers on about whatever she had been doing since the last time they spoke.

“... And  _ then _ , these rockets came out o’ bloody  _ nowhere!  _ I swear on my jacket they were heat seeking, too; I couldn’t shake ‘em off for a solid minute. Had to recall back last-second and pray they just crashed into a-- Oh, we’re here! Ooh, everyone is going to be so excited to see that you made it…!”

Morgan, who had been quiet the whole time, raises an eyebrow in question at the ‘who’, but follows Tracer through a doorway that she holds open for him, figuring his questions will be answered.

The first face he looks on to is Angela, who looks up at his entrance and lets out a gasp of surprise, her hands coming up to cover her lips. She stands and rushes over, reminding Morgan of the young girl she had been when they met with her exuberance, and wraps her arms around Morgan’s waist in a hug. There’s a lot of loud yells in recognition, and a large clang rings out in the room when, suddenly, Morgan feels both him and Mercy being lifted up off the ground after gigantic, muscular arms wrap around their torsos. He looks up and sees Reinhardt, in his armor(though without the helmet), beaming at him while his booming laugh rang throughout the room.

From the corner of his eye, Morgan swears he sees a streak of red and blue leave the doorway. 

It’s quickly forgotten when he’s set down and the reunion continues. Fareeha approaches in a camo tank top and baggy army pants, her outstretched arms welcoming him in yet another warm embrace. When wrapped up, Morgan takes a second to pat her abs, and frowns. “Fareeha, are you not eating enough? You’re so thin! I’ll make you something later, if you’d like--” 

She cuts him off with an abrupt laugh, waving him off with a grin. “I’m fine, Morgan! We didn’t call you here to mother us, you know.”

The teacher flushes and giggles, scratching his nose. “I know you didn’t, but what can I say? I worry for you all!”

“I’ll take you up on the offer, Morgan!” Reinhardt bellows, both fists resting on his hips in his traditional stance. “It has been too long since we have had a large meal like before! It should be the first order of business after today.”

Morgan eyes Angela, and she shrugs, as if to say, ‘ _ Why not?’ _ . An unspoken agreement takes place, and Morgan cocks a hip while crossing his arms.

“Alright, then; I’ll sit down with her and plan something out--  _ if  _ you all help out around the base, and go and get what we need.”

Tracer pipes up then, pumping her fist into the air with an ecstatic grin. “ _ Yeah! _ That’s what I’m talking about!”

A cough sounds from the couch in the room, and Morgan looks over to see a small, thin, brown haired eastern girl. She looks a little nervous, but otherwise calm. Morgan swears he knows her from somewhere.

“Sorry to interrupt your little moment, but who exactly are you?”

The question is an honest one, and Morgan responds kindly. He gives her a salute, and then a little wave. “Morgan Morrison, young lady. I was a writer years ago, and I’m an old friend of the family.” 

Reinhardt makes a noise as though he’s offended. “ _ Friend?! _ No, you were at the core of it! You and Jack were what kept things grinding, what fueled us all! We are as much your family as any blood relative, Morgan.”

The girl scrunches up her nose, looking confused. “Jack? But isn’t he--” 

She’s cut off by a loud  **_‘Shh!_ ** ’ from Tracer, and hard glares from Fareeha and Angela. Morgan furrows his brows, and turns back to hold his hands up to pacify them.

“It’s okay, guys,” he reassures. “I’ve come to terms with it. He’s….” An inhale. “Gone, and it’s sad, but it happened and it’s over with. Talking about my late husband is something I want to do, especially if I’m going to be here.”

When he turns back to the new girl, she has this sad look of understanding, which turns to one of pity when she realizes why they were so adamant that he be kept in the dark.

“Uh… Y-yeah. Anyways, it’s nice to meet you! I’m Hana Song, callsign: D.Va! It’s nice to meet you.” She extends a hand in greeting, and Morgan scowls, taking it and shaking it slowly. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” he says slowly, as if still trying to recall it. “But that sounds achingly… Familiar. You look too young to be a student of mine, but do I know you?”

“I’m kind of a celebrity,” she says, the cocky grin on her face apparent in her voice. Morgan’s mouth shapes to an ‘O’ and his eyebrows raise, though he’s not entirely convinced. 

“Movie star, champion Starcraft player, MEKA pilot extraordinaire! You know, the usual.” The hairflip is implied. Morgan laughs.

“I’m sure you’re quite popular, but I’m afraid I don’t watch much television anymore-- Old people, you know the drill.” He grins, and Hana looks confused again.

“You don’t  _ look _ old-- maybe old enough to be my parent, but not ‘I-don’t-watch-T.V-old’. How old are you?”

The teacher can’t help but chuckle, pulling his hand back and scratching his head. “I turn fifty-three, in June.”

Hana is speechless, while Reinhardt and Angela laugh. Switching topics, Morgan turns to face his old friends with a smile.

“Let’s get stuff going-- Where is Winston? It’s been years, and I can’t wait to see what he has in store for me.”

~*~

The head conference room is their next stop, and Morgan practically throws himself at Winston with a warm hug and a laugh of excitement. The gorilla is a little startled(he wasn’t much of a hugger), but it was so good to see his old friend that he didn’t really mind. They say hello, and then Morgan takes a seat at the round table, next to Angela. A quick glance around the room shows that there’s another person there with them; an older looking man, with broad shoulders that strained in a familiar-looking red, white, and blue leather jacket. His face is covered with a mask, with the only visible detail being a scar that just poked out past the bridge of his nose. He sat a few seats down, on the opposite side of the table, with his arms crossed and his head pointed forward. Morgan leans up to Angela and whispers, feeling a bit like a high schooler, “Who’s mister tall, dark and handsome? Never seen him before.”

Angela looks forlorn, and she’s quiet until Morgan nudges her again. “Oh-- Er, he’s a mercenary for hire. He goes by Soldier: 76. We don’t talk to him, much. He keeps to himself.”

Morgan snorts, and nudges her once more with a small grin. “That’s alright, I guess-- He makes for good eye candy. I haven’t had someone catch my attention like him in years.”

At this, Angela noticeably stiffens, and when Morgan looks back over the gunman is staring right at him. Almost in sync, the both look forward once more, though Morgan spares one more glance to appreciate the stranger.

Oddly enough, he doesn’t feel like a stranger at all. Weird.

He doesn’t have much time to pander on it, because Winston is calling the meeting to order.

“Alright, everyone! Today is a good day-- We have one of our own back with us, today! We’ve all undoubtedly done it, but everyone, say hi to Morgan!”

The room erupts into cheers, and Morgan blushes while shrinking into his chair. He waves his hands to quiet them all, and after an expectant pause, rolls his eyes with a grin. “It’s good to see you all, too-- You won’t believe how nice it feels to be back. The real world is  _ boring _ .”

There’s a round of laughter, and then it’s Winston silencing everyone again.

“Alright, alright-- Good to have you with us, Morgan. I’ll keep it short, because you’ve been travelling, and I’m sure you’re tired after a long day.”

The writer nods, giving a ready thumbs-up. “Whatever you want to do-- What do you have for me, Winston? I’ll help any way I can.”

“Fantastic. I called you with us for an easy job, but it’s going to need dedication,” he warns, tapping a few keys on the tablet in front of him. “I want you to be our publicist, to put it simply.”

The room goes quiet as everyone processes this. Hana is the first one to speak up again. 

“Why didn’t you just ask for my help? I have plenty of agents who could help with this.”

Winston just shakes his head. “It wouldn’t be the same. Morgan knows us inside and out-- He was the husband of the Strike-Commander, and knew everyone personally. I’d rather have him with us, than some stranger.”

Morgan coughs, raising his hand and showing off the bright diamond ring he never took off. “ _ Is _ the husband of the Strike-Commander. I was widowed, not divorced; We said ‘till death do us part’, and I’m still kicking. I’ll be married to him after that, too. And, Hana,” he turns his attention to her, then, a confident smirk on his face. “I want to see one of your agents hold a candle to how I’ll make all of you look.”

Winston lets out a nervous laugh. “... Yes, well, moving on. Athena, if you would?”

The large T.V screen in the room hums to life, and Athena’s cool, collected voice flows out of speakers. “ _ Now retrieving; all Overwatch related media in the last year.”  _

Already, twenty articles and news anchors come up, and none of it looks good. Winston gestures to the screen. “As you can see, there’s quite a bit of propaganda out against us. You have to counter all of that, and then overpower it. Think you’re up to the challenge? Do you think you can show the world we’re all heroes once more?”

Everyone leans forward in their seat, and the air is stuck in a pregnant pause while they await Morgan’s answer. He lets it sit like that, before chuckling and shaking his head.

“You make it sound like it’s going to be hard, dear. Remember who I am, hm?”

There’s a few cheers around the room once more, and Winston smiles. Morgan swears the 76 guy looks proud. It sends an odd feeling through his gut.

“Alrighty, then! Magnificent! The meeting is dismissed. Morgan, I’ll discuss the details with you later on. For now, all of you go out and have a little bit of fun.”

The room clears out quickly, with everyone buzzing about Morgan being back. The teacher of the hour falls behind, wanting to ask Winston a few more questions, until Soldier:76 stands to leave.

As soon as Morgan sees the logo on his back, a wave of nausea crashes over him so powerful he has to hold onto the table for support. Time seemingly goes to a standstill as he remembers exactly what that jacket was, and who it belonged to. 

He remembers sitting on a bed, huddled up in it’s warm embrace while he waited for his boyfriend to come back.

He remembers his husband pushing his arms through the too-large sleeves and zipping it up, instructing him to hop up and hold on tight before taking off on a motorcycle. 

He remembers having it draped over his shoulders when it rained and they had to get from the car to the house, and the warm smile his husband gave him when he saw him wearing it.

Seconds after the soldier exits the room leaves, Morgan storms after him with a furious expression, hands balled up into fists.

He catches up to the man quickly, who’s slow, steady gait was no match for Morgan’s rage-induced speed.

“ _ Hey! _ ” Morgan calls, stomping up behind the man and rearing his fist back.

There’s a small, questioning hum in reply, and everyone behind Morgan turns to see what was going to happen. The soldier turns around as well to see who was calling for him, but as soon as he looks over his shoulder a hard, powerful fist is driving itself right into the center of his mask.

Despite not exercising as much as he should for his age, the anger that had bubbled up gave Morgan the strength to shatter Jack Morrison’s visor, and embed several shards of glass into tough, scratched skin. Bright, fiery blue eyes that were now visible squeeze shut, and Jack grunts in pain at the blow. He staggers back, surprised, and almost readies himself to fight before his vision clears and he sees the one person he could never lay a finger on.

They stand like that for a minute; Jack in shock, with blood pouring from where glass had sliced open his face, and Morgan with flared nostrils, his fist already soaked with his own blood from the several shards of glass that had dug into his knuckles. A quick flick of his arm sends a few pieces to the ground, along with a few flecks of blood.

Morgan turns and leaves, bringing up his hand and nursing it. When he passes Mercy, who was in just as much shock as the rest of them, he grumbles a pissed off “Come on,” while he makes his way to the med bay. 

Jack stands there, still surprised at the action, before finally standing and slinking past everyone else in the hallway, trying his best to ignore the glares of disdain and disapproval while he followed his abandoned husband.


	2. Chapter 2

“You know, I had this vague feeling that you would wind up in my office,” Mercy hums, disposing of the last shard of glass into the tin on the table next to her. From the tray sitting beside it, she takes a cotton ball coated in solution and dabs it at the various cuts on Morgan’s knuckles. He hisses, but doesn’t jerk back, and Mercy offers a wry smile of pity while she works. “I just didn’t think it would be over this.”

Morgan doesn’t respond, staring at the ground while he stews over everything that had just happened. Not wanting to start anything more, Mercy continues to clean and dress the wound in quiet as well. When she wraps the bandage around his fingers one last time, she pats the top of it and helps him stand from the chair she had him sitting in.

“It’s going to sting for about a week whenever anything touches it,” she warns, guiding him out of the room. “Be careful in the shower, or using the bathroom. Cooking might be difficult if you do not keep it covered, as well. Nothing a minor painkiller won’t help, if you absolutely have to.”

“Vicodin?” Morgan snorts. “That’ll help knock me out, too.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of Ibuprofen,” she tries, letting out an easy chuckle. 

In the waiting room, any desire to laugh quickly fades when the first thing Morgan sees is Soldier: 76 leaning against the wall, a new visor in place. There were one or two red scratches around his eyebrows, but nothing else to show he had been decked hard enough to shatter his visor. Morgan feels a twang of disappointment at this, but otherwise chooses to ignore him.

Thankfully, Tracer was there as well, and she’s by Morgan’s side in an instant, hooking her arm through his and offering him yet another pitiful smile(which, Morgan realizes with a sick, twisted inner laugh, reminds him exactly of when he found out Jack was dead. Oh, the irony).

He thanks Angela one last time, and makes his way out of the area with Lena in tow, not sparing the other man in the room a second glance.

When they’re gone, Jack and Angela are left alone in the room. Neither one says anything, and Jack is about to leave until Angela takes in a deep breath and starts speaking, her voice cold and unforgiving.

“... You deserve however he treats you, you know this?” She shakes her head. “What you did… I cannot imagine feeling how he must have felt, how he must  _ feel. _ ”

Jack grunts, his mask keeping Angela from knowing if he was even looking at her or not. “I did what I did for a reason, I don’t expect you to understand it; just know it was for the best, and that he’s better off now witho--”

“He celebrated  _ every year _ , you know,” Angela interrupts, her glare as fierce as anything Jack could give. The soldier raised a brow, not sure what she means.

“I may not have been able to visit, but I called him, Jack. Every year, on the day of your funeral, I would call him. He  _ still _ cries on that day. Even now, knowing you’re alive and well and that you  _ left him _ for all of those years, I bet he still misses you.”

“What do you propose I do, Ziegler?” He snarls, fed up(mainly because she was right). “Go in there and act like nothing happened? Just go in and act like the man I  _ was _ ?”

If looks could kill, Jack would be as dead as he’s supposed to be in that moment.

“I am not telling you what to do. You’re Jack Morrison-- I’m sure you’ll find some way to snake your way into his heart again.”

~*~

Lena decided to lead Morgan to where he would be sleeping after he was fixed up, figuring the man needed the rest and the time alone. 

“Here we are!” she chirps, pressing her finger against a pad and walking to the large, spacious room. “Cap’n’s quarters, jus’ for you!”

Morgan gives her a look when he steps inside. “I’m not sharing this with  _ him _ , am I?”

Tracer waves her arm dismissively, letting out a cool ‘ _ Psshhh’ _ and chuckling. “Nah, he’s gone and resigned himself to some standard room. Figure, he doesn’t really see ‘mself as the leader anymore, right? But, you’re just as welcomed as he is to stay here, so we kept it open for you!”

The words are touching, in a strange way. Morgan goes and takes a seat on the mattress, grinning up at Lena. “I’m glad I was expected to be here. Despite… Earlier, I’m still very excited to get back to work with all of you.”

Lena salutes him with a wink, and the two of them fall silent, an awkwardness setting in the air from everything that had happened. The only noise is the soft hum of Lena’s chronal accelerator, until it’s wearer speaks up.

“... I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Tracer whispers, crossing her arms underneath the device on her chest. “He came to me first, and begged that I didn’t say anything, ya know? Said it’d be better this way, if you kept on thinkin’ he was de--”

She’s stopped by a hand held up to her, a wordless way of telling her that she’d said enough. “It’s not your fault, dear-- I don’t blame you. Not for a second.” Morgan stops, sucking in a breath and trying to think about what he wanted to say. Eventually, all he can manage is a small, shaky, “I missed him,” which is followed by a sniffle he tries to hide by covering his mouth and nose with his hands. Lena is next to him in an instant, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and holding him tight, shushing him and comforting him until he tires himself out, and stays by his side until he falls asleep. 

That night, he dreams that same recurring scene over and over again, reliving the words Angela said to him so long ago, watching once again as a coffin was lowered into the ground, experiencing the despair and loneliness he had been harboring for a decade. It’s too much to bear this time, and he shoots up in bed later on with a shrill yell that quickly devolves into a choked cry. He coughs, and brings his knees to his chest to hide his head.

Almost a minute after he’s woken up, he registers large, strong arms being wrapped around his waist, and he’s pressed against a warm chest. The sensation is so overwhelmingly similar that he breaks down into weak, wracking sobs, pressing his face into the muscular figure. The stranger holds him, shushing him and stroking his hair, and Morgan just lets out tiny cries of “ _ Jack, Jack, _ ” while he continues to cry. From above him, Morgan hears a faint hissing sound, and the clatter of something being set down on the nightstand. A pair of lips press against his forehead, and it’s only then that he looks up to see a handsome, scarred face, and pained, startling blue eyes. In that moment, he completely forgets about everything that happened the day before, and completely gives himself over to this too-good reality.

“ _ You, _ ” he whispers, reaching up and cupping a strong, scratchy-stubbled jaw. Jack leans into it, the expression in his eyes easing and his scarred lips stretching into a warm smile. 

“... Yeah. It’s me,” he finally answers, leaning down and kissing at the tear stains in the corner of Morgan’s eyes, making the man’s breath catch in his throat. The kisses continue, trailing down his cheeks before planting onto his lips, and then Jack is dipping him back and lowering him onto the bed, moving his mouth slowly against Morgan’s own in a kiss both of them have needed for too long. The teacher is breathless, and all he can do is throw his arms behind Jack’s head and let himself be whisked away with the affection Jack was giving him.

When the old soldier pulls back, Morgan can only let out an airy, “I thought you  _ left _ ,” his mind too jumbled to separate dream from reality. Jack growls, trailing his kisses from the corner of Morgan’s lips down to his neck, biting and licking at the untouched area. 

“Never again,” he rasps, sinking his teeth into smooth skin and sucking at the mark. “Never going to leave you, not for a second.”

For some reason, the remark stands clear in Morgan’s scrambled thoughts, and before Jack can press his lips to Morgan’s neck again, the brunette is putting his hands on the ex-commander’s shoulders and  _ shoving, _ curling up and jerking back against the headboard like he had been burnt.

“You  _ did _ leave--! You  _ left _ me, and you  _ lied _ to me, and you want to come in here and-- and just--” He presses a palm to his forehead, nursing the oncoming headache while wondering how he had let himself be so stupid. “-- And kiss me and make me think that you  _ didn’t?! _ Do you have any idea how much the last ten years have  _ hurt?! _ Go-- Get out.”

Jack winces at the command, but reaches forward in one last attempt to pacify his husband. “Morgan, please, let me just--”

“ **_Out!_ ** ” he yells again, jamming his finger in the direction of the door. Jack’s expression contorts to one of pain for a second, before his face hardens and he stands, grabbing his visor and slinking out of the door like a dog with it’s tail between it’s legs. He pauses in his exit right in the doorframe. Jack takes a breath, turning his head towards Morgan and staring at him from where he stood.

“... I love you,” he tries, and it’s so heartfelt and painful to hear that Morgan actually cringes, biting his lip and furrowing his brows to try not to break down once again. When it’s apparent that he isn’t going to respond, Jack drops his shoulders and leaves, trudging out of the door with a hard exhale through his nostrils.

Back in the room, Morgan holds his left hand close to his chest, turning the rings on his finger while staring at the ceiling. He mulls over what just happened, asking himself why he refused to give in and let himself be carried away by his long-lost husband once again, and criticizes himself for being so proud. The thoughts are shoved down with a huff, and he rolls over onto his side and squeezes his eyes shut to try and get some sleep.

On the exact opposite side of the wall Morgan’s bed was against, Jack sat on the ground with his head between his propped-up knees, resisting the urge to go in there and hold Morgan to his chest no matter how much he protested, and not let go until the man calmed down and listened so he could pour his heart out and reconcile. Jack sighs, realizing how pointless it would be to even try, raising his head and clicking his mask back into place. He still sits there, though; keeping watch in a silent vigil over the man he still dedicated every breath and heartbeat to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was really short but i felt like it didnt need much more you know


	3. Chapter 3

Morgan goes a week without seeing any sign of Jack.

During this week, he stays in his room, in Winston’s office, or, occasionally, he goes outside on the roof and enjoys the warm mediterranean climate. The week is used to write as much as he can, scouring the far reaches of the internet for propaganda he needed to provide counterarguments for. Two entire pieces are written by the next Monday, and he’s handing them in before Winston even feels the need to ask. 

Nobody else really bothers him in that week. Majority figured that the man needed his space, considering the shock that came from him learning that his long-lost husband wasn’t so long-lost. He sees them all when it’s time to eat, or in the showers, though they keep their distance. Conversations quiet when he sits down, and he gets looks of pity from all persons.

Morgan is fed up with the treatment the day he finishes his first round of work. As per usual, when he takes a seat with his plate at the table, everyone quiets down and switches to small talk. The teacher stares at his food in silence for a second, before glaring up at the group and frowning at everyone in attendance.

“You don’t need to belittle me, you know,” he huffs, his tone just as disappointed as his facial expression. “I’m not angry with any of you, and I’m not so emotionally broken that talking about my problem will have me crying.”

A few of his family members shift uncomfortably, still not looking at him. Angela, who sat diagonal from him across the table, speaks up first.

“We’re sorry, Morgan-- It’s just, most of us  _ knew _ … This entire time, we knew he was here, and kept you in the dark because he told us to, and we didn’t want to put you through--”

Morgan stops her, holding up his hand. “Please-- I know this. I  _ understand _ this. Honestly, I appreciate it. You did what you did because you thought it was right, or because you didn’t want to go against what he told you to do.” He takes a breath. “... I can’t be mad at you for that. Even if I wanted to be, I couldn’t get angry with you when you had my best interest at heart. It isn’t your fault, it’s his.”

The impromptu scolding seems to settle the doubts of most of them, and they noticeably ease up. It stays quiet for a minute after that, with everyone wondering who will be the first to break the awkward silence, before Fareeha steps up to the mantle by clearing her throat.

“So… How does your work go, then? Any luck with trying to make Overwatch seem less of a threat.”

The question lightens the mood, and Morgan’s demeanor changes with a roll of his eyes and an irritated groan.

“Hardly; I mean, I can write up a lot on how wonderful you all are, believe me-- but it’s difficult to combat opinions and propaganda that’s so blatantly untrue or has no foundation. I’ve had to go back and see what tactics people in the past have used-- the 2016 American election was a good lead, but even experts had trouble swaying people with all of the conspiracy theories swirling there.”

Tracer grimaces and wrinkles her nose, displeased with the news. “Can’t you just prove the bloody idiots are wrong, and get on with it? If there isn’t any truth to it, then you ought ‘ta have an easy time of it, right?”

A shake of his head is not what Lena wants in return, but it’s what she gets. “It isn’t that easy, dear-- human beings are stubborn, foolish creatures. When someone is told everything they believe and know to be true is false, their first instinct is to reject it; and rightfully so. It’s a scary thing, to face something like that.” He gestures around with his hands while he talks, and holds up a finger to pause his explanation while he takes a drink.

“... Mm--  _ Ahem _ . Look at racism; nowadays, it’s a rare, rare thing to see. So many people with those beliefs have died off, and here in 2076, majority of people were raised by-or-around a culture that accepts and is equal to all people of color. But even there, the world still has people who cling to their beliefs, and shelter their children from what they deem to be impure or disgraceful. That’s just how people  _ are _ .”

A few people murmur around the table, and then Hana(who was barely visible behind Reinhardt’s massive frame, who was seated next to her) chirps from her end. 

“Do you think you can do it, then? You’re making it sound a little bit… Er, impossible.”

Morgan smirks here, instantly switching to a more confident attitude. “Please-- It’s just a matter of switching tactics. The phrase ‘you catch more flies with honey than vinegar’ holds quite a bit of merit to it, believe it or not. It might take a while, but people will come around. My first goal is to get a few world leaders to have faith in us. America should be easy to grab, and I think Brazil and India are safe bets, as well. It just takes patience, and playing it careful… And all of you to actually do your jobs, of course. Try not to suck, okay? Make it a little easier for me.”

A bout of laughter rings through the table, and for the first time since he’s gotten there, Morgan feels at home.

~*~

Morgan’s good mood has to end eventually.

It happens later that week, on the night after an excursion to Nepal. Those who went on the mission come back jaded, sore, and tired. Morgan doesn’t bother them all when they come in, letting the team head straight to their rooms so they can get well-deserved rest. Later, in the wee hours of the morning, an intense craving for pizza forcing him out of his room and into the kitchen.

He’s not very happy when he enters.

Of  _ course _ Jack has to be in there, leaning against the counter while he stared off into space, holding the very thing Morgan wanted in that moment.

Behind him, on the counter, is another slice that sat untouched. It takes a lot of convincing to himself, but the prospect of greasy, delicious food is enough for the man to put on the most uninterested face he can manage and trudge further into the kitchen and up to his ex-husband, staring at handsome, rugged features for a second before clearing his throat to get Jack’s attention.

The soldier perks up, and nearly drops everything when he sees who was there. Morgan would laugh at the reaction, if he didn’t feel like doing whatever the exact opposite of laughing is.

“... Can you hand me that?” he says, pointing past Jack at the plate. The soldier stutters out a ‘sure’, and passes it over.

Without another word, Morgan turns with the full intention to leave, which he would have acted upon if a hand hadn’t grabbed his shoulder.

“Come on, at least eat with me?”

He doesn’t move for a second, taking in a deep breath… Before continuing on. He’s stopped once again, however, when Jack yells after him, sounding almost smug.

“Angie gets pissed if you take food out of the kitchen. I wouldn’t if I were you.”

The breath he was holding is released, and Morgan turns back and crosses to the small table in the kitchen where he takes a seat. 

The two of them eat in silence. Jack doesn't really touch what is left of his food, and Morgan takes small, tiny bites while he stares at his plate. Every few seconds, when the other isn't looking, they each shoot a glance at the other across the table. Of course, Jack is the one who speaks first once again.

“... Will you at least hear me out on what I have to say?” he tries, sending over a look that Morgan tries with every ounce of his strength to resist… It’s futile, in the end, and the writer rolls his eyes and groans.

“Fine. I’ll listen to you, Jack. Make it quick.”

Jack is ecstatic just to hear that, and his look of desperation shifts to a soft, pained smile.

“Thank you… Well, er, where to start?” There’s a nervous chuckle as he sorts through everything in his head. Morgan just looks unamused.

“... The beginning, then, I suppose.” He clears his throat. “... Well, er, after the explosion, I had a lot to think about. I did actually come pretty close to dying there, actually. If I didn’t have any more biotic fields left, I would have bled out, or something. But I had one left, somehow, and while I laid there, slowly coming back from… Well,  _ death _ , I had a lot to think about.”

Morgan stares at him while he collects his thoughts, and gestures for him to continue.

“... I thought about what I had done wrong, as a leader and as a friend. What I had done wrong as a husband to you. I thought about how awful and distant I had been after Ana was taken out. The last three years of our marriage were a shitshow, and you deserved better--” 

Morgan holds up a hand to stop him there. “ _ Don’t _ apologize for our marriage-- I never held any of it against you, and I loved you just as much as I did before, and just much as I do now. Continue.”

The words are reason enough for an itch of a grin to pop up on his face, and Jack chuckles. “Y… Yeah. Thanks for that, I suppose. It’s good to know. Anyways-- that doesn’t change that I made mistakes with other people. Namely, Gabriel; his betrayal was terrible, but it wasn’t unprecedented.”

Here, Jack raises his brow with a sort of a ‘wow’ look, and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Putting it perspective made him feel... Awful. It was something he had buried for years, and facing it all was difficult.

“I… I couldn’t believe it was him. He was my  _ friend _ \-- My  _ brother _ . We did everything together, and told each other everything. I never could have had another friend like him, and yet… It was so easy for him to leave, to betray the organization we built up from the ground together. To betray Ana, and you, and me.” 

A reluctant tear beads in his eye, and he wipes it away before letting his head fall forward, raking his fingers through what hair he still had and resting on his palms.

“... I just wish I could have  _ done _ something--  _ anything-- _ to make it up to him, you know? Something to… To bring him back to me.”

Morgan can't look at Jack after he says his piece. It takes every bone in his body not to walk over and console the man; to go and take him into his arms and press a kiss to his head and quell every worry that ever was or ever would be just as he did years ago.

“... When I was a child, my parents were my world. They were everything to me-- my protectors, my teachers, my  _ idols. _ I looked up to them in every sense of the word,” he begins, taking a breath. “I… Loved them. They taught me all that I know. But… When I was sixteen, the year before I left, I told them about myself. I came out and told them I had feelings for a boy, and that I wanted to ask him out.”

Jack raises an eyebrow, scratching a scarred chin. “... And? What happened?”

“They  _ hated _ me for it. I had to leave for three days, and when I came back, everything was…  _ Different. _ I had to cook for myself from then. I didn’t ride in the car with them. Family nights turned into study nights, and study nights turned into evenings filled with self-pity. The man and woman who I trusted most-- who I loved most in the world, completely shut me out of their life, because of who I had picked to feel attraction to when I was born into this world.”

The story is lost on him. Maybe it’s his age, but Jack can’t make heads or tails of where his ex-husband was going with this. “... What about it? Why bring that up now?”

“The point is,” Morgan blurts, his eyes sliding over to look at the mask Jack had set on the counter. “... There is always something you can do to break someone’s love for you. There is always a way to sever a tie. Those were my  _ parents _ , Jack. Gabriel was your  _ friend _ \-- Please, don’t give yourself a hard time. It was never a matter of how shaky your friendship was. You were always close; it just is that what happened was what pushed Gabriel over the edge, and severed his ties with Overwatch.”

There’s quiet in the room once more. It perforates the air, accenting the awkwardness between the two older men.

“... What is it that I could have done to you,” Jack whispers, unable to get any louder in fear of what his voice would do. “To make you lose your love for me?”

Morgan turns to look at him, then; green eyes full of need and anguish; as if begging for Jack to answer a question they’d kept for the last ten years. 

“You leaving me.”

The room is dead silent after that, both of them lost to what had been admitted. 

Jack’s face goes stony, and he stays quiet. “... So that’s it, then? There’s nothing I can do to get you back?”

Morgan stands, crossing over to the sink with his now-empty plate to put some distance between them. “Jack… I loved you. For ten years, I continued to love you. Even now, while I’m denying every single part of my body that  _ screams _ at me to run to you and just…. Give in, I still love you. But… I  _ can’t _ . You  _ lied _ to me, Jack, and made me go through a grieving process I didn’t think either of us would ever have to experience with each other. And you know what makes it worse? I come here and you don’t even own up to the fact that you did it. You  _ knew _ that you shouldn’t have, but you can’t own up to it, so you avoid me.”

Jack shoots up then, furrowing his brows and raising his voice in anger. “So what, you wanted me to just go up to you and-- fucking-- act like I used to? Did you want me to just  _ ignore _ how you felt, or what I did?! I wanted to give you space, Morgan!”

The teacher whips around to face him, fighting back with a glare and a tone every bit as ferocious. “I expected you to  _ fight for it _ , Jack! Even though I reacted the way I did, I thought that maybe, just  _ maybe _ , the fact that we were married  _ meant something _ to you, enough that you would try to earn it  _ back! _ You don’t do that by skirting around me like a dog, Jack! You do it by owning up to your actions and  _ apologizing for it!” _

**_“Then I’m sorry!_ ** ” Jack erupts, clutching the table in his rage. “I’m  _ sorry _ I left you for all of those years! I’m  _ sorry _ that I faked my death and left, because I didn’t want to come back to you! I’m  _ sorry _ that I didn’t want to crawl back to you the shell of the man I was, because I thought you deserved someone who didn’t  _ fail everyone! _ ”

Morgan’s face instantly changes to one of surprise, before melting into a look of pity. He shakes his head, and squeezes his eyes to keep tears from welling up Jack closes the distance between them with slow, careful strides, bringing his hands to Morgan's shoulders and smoothing them up to his head, cupping his cheeks. "... I had the option to either die with dignity, with everyone believing that I had went down with my cause, or I could have come home to you, and faced you with the knowledge that I had failed, and that I couldn't save the most important thing in my life after you." His voice is lowered again to a whisper, and he takes a shaky breath to try and keep his composure, letting his head fall forward onto Morgan's. "... I wanted your last thoughts of me to be the man I was, instead of forcing you to live with a failure. I'm sorry for that-- For taking the coward's way out, and leaving you to deal with the leftovers."   
“Jack…” He mutters, looking at his husband with an expression that breaks the soldier’s heart. “... Jack, not once, not for a second, did I ever consider you a failure. I never will.”

The anger in the room drains away, and it’s quiet once again. Jack shudders at the consoling words, and reaches further up with his left hand to stroke the side of Morgan's face with his fingertips. "... I promise, from here on out, that as long as you wear those rings, I won't give up on you. Whether you like it or not, I'm going to try and win you over, okay...? I want you back, beautiful. Please." As he speaks, he lowers his head, closing the distance between their lips ever so slowly, until they're just a hair's width apart... Then Morgan shakes his head again, and pushes away from his husband as he turns to leave. “I’m sorry, I-- I can't do this, Jack. Not yet. I have to-- I have to leave. Goodnight.”

As he exits, Jack reaches after him desperately before dropping his arm back to his side, staring at the ground without a word while he wallows in his own self-pity.

~*~

The next morning, Morgan and everyone sit at the table like they usually do. Reinhardt is in the middle of some story from the day before, which Fareeha chimes in on every once in awhile. The chatter dies down, however, when a shadow casts itself over the seat next to Morgan, and Jack sets his plate down before taking a place next to his ex-husband.

From the way Morgan was blatantly ignoring his presence, the rest of the group figures that no, this doesn’t mean anything. It stays died-down for another minute, before Lena looks over with wide, expectant eyes, and urges Reinhardt to continue.

“Well?! What’d the bloke do then?!”

Reinhardt launches back into his story once again, as if he hadn't lost any momentum in the first place. Soon enough, everyone is laughing or clapping at his broad gestures or tales of grandeur, and the mood lightens up again.

When conversation builds up enough that they aren’t noticed, Jack nudges the man next to him and, ever so quietly, mutters; “Morning, beautiful.”

Without saying anything in return, Morgan reaches over,-- so slow that him moving doesn't catch any attention-- takes Jack’s hand, and squeezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this made me upset


End file.
